seasonal

The outward surge of some enormous Power was what she felt . . . something to which every instinct in her being rose in opposition because it threatened her and hers. In that moment she realized the Personality of the Forest . . . menacing.

Like this:

It began to fade in and out, while changing its colours in a rhythmic succession like a gaseous cuttlefish.

The androgynous mist started to shrink, and the spaces between its particles shrank with it. It began to fade in and out, while changing its colours in a rhythmic succession like a gaseous cuttlefish. It soon became clear that the shrinking was in fact shifting. But shifting of what? Colour, smell, space?

It was the shape, however. That was the only thing that mattered to the mist.

Mist became man. Or hominid-shaped, at least. And then the androgynous mist became a masculine solid. Of course, it always choose this form. Why? Who knew what went through the mind of an androgynous mist . . .

The last act began as the mist materialized as a solid being. It grasped the shoulders of the young man, the object of its ‘affection’, and pierced his chest with a long draconian tongue. Without so much as a dying whisper the young man crumpled to the ground. He had lost his mind a long time ago. How fortunate for him, the being thought. Or, rather, it thought along those lines. Behind those milky white eyes there lied a treacherous, mysterious mind, with its own set of rules and its own inner workings.

It licked the blood off of its hand, slowly trailing that tongue down until it came to its elbow; that elbow ended in a sharp, bony spike. Why hadn’t it used that to kill the man? That would have been the more ‘humane’ method, but there would have been little in the way of personal pleasure offered to the creature.

Like this:

“I’ve forgotten the words already,” a voice said in as low a voice as it could muster; that voice was so deep, so distinct. . . So hostile.

“Why do you hate me so much?” She asked.

There was a long pause between words. When she had made up her mind that this was all a dream the owner of the voice answered her question. Finally. “How can you tell?”

“I just know. Don’t ask me how.” There was still the possibility of this being a hallucination. She had read about high frequency sounds and electromagnetic waves affecting the brain. There was that, and much more she reasoned. Ruling out insanity as the cause of all this gave her a small measure of comfort. Small, she reminded herself.

“So, after all these years something remains.” Bitterness broke through that thin layer hostility. Beneath it all was pain. And pride.

“You tricked me, and I died.”

A sharp intake of breath broke the silence. “You didn’t die. You became like me–like a god–immortal.”

She shook her head, attempting to dispel the turmoil within her. It were as if she were drunk. Nothing made sense anymore; She couldn’t think. “Stop!” she snarled. “You never listened! You never cared about anything but yourself!” Her voice, she realized, was different. She could not tell what it was that made it so different. That drunk feeling swept over her once more, and she fainted.

Like this:

“I don’t see why you’re so cut up about it–oh . . .” As he turned around he noticed his partners lack of life. They had literally been cut up. But by what? was his immediate question. Who could have done this, or–he made a loud gulping sound–whatcould have done this?

On the one hand he was scared half to death.

On the other hand he was trying so damn hard not to burst out laughing. The situation was so ludicrous he was almost in denial. For crying out loud, this was exactly what happened in B grade in horror flicks!

Well, he said to himself. You can always join them, and then beat them later! Feeling strengthened by his new resolve, he straightened his pristine lab coat.

Then he filled both pockets with every sharp object he could find.

Before leaving the room he turned back to his partners corpse. “Promise me you won’t turn into a zombie and I promise that I will avenge you.”

Like this:

Two-faced harpy sitting in a chair
Two-faced harpy with the dead white hair
Two-faced harpy screeching: life’s not fair!
In your nice comfy chair
Where the people don’t care
Two-faced harpy sitting in her lair
Sorry, little harpy, but you’ll just have to share
Devil-Woman’s coming, so you’re in for a scare
Go tell your little cronies about your greatest nightmare
‘Cause Devil-Woman’s coming, and you’re in for a scare
You two-faced harpy, I’m gonna show and tell
Gonna show you my storm cloud wings, gonna tell you all about hell
Two-faced harpy with the dead white hair, your dirty white wings, and your little wrinkled heart, I’m curious to know how you fell
So far, landed in between insanity and dreams, living in denial, but you just can’t tell
Two-faced harpy sitting in a chair
Sharing your space with your greatest nightmare

Like this:

“Feed me, I am hungry,“ the beast said. It regarded its reflection on spoon as it awaited the answer. Perhaps he should just crawl into a hole and die–permanently. No one wanted a demon around.

As expected, the woman said No in a flat tone, followed by a: “Leave me alone.”

If only he could make her feel something . . . Then he wouldn’t feel so dead inside. It would never happen again like it used to, though; she had put her foot down–permanently. She didn’t want a demon around.

Like this:

It’s true. Nothing pleases me more than a slew of disjointed comments and thoughts. My favourites are the ones about purses and watches; second on my list would be the faceless, nameless people who claim to love me (well, the team, but that includes me as well).

I have a story for you–it’s more of a parable, really, but who cares.

There were two chimps, and one baby sloth. Then they disintegrated.

Oh, you didn’t learn anything? Well, I did lie about this being a parable, but who cares. Nobody really cares much for my opinion. Not even Jake, and he was the one who discovered me. It’s all about Theo, and that Coopid thing. Coopid’s a parasite, and everyone denies that he exists. We don’t even know if he is a he. Somehow, even Coopid gets more love than me.

It’s not like I really care, or anything.

I’m going to morph into a cat now. Yes, and then someone will find me in their house.

Like this:

Werewolves were far more terrifying than vampires. It is probably the idea of seeing the human within the beast and knowing you can’t reach it. It might as well be a great white shark. There is no sitting down and discussing Proust with it, which the traditional vampire model seems to leave room for.
–Glen Duncan